"Murtagh!" exclaimed Nessa, almost involuntary, but in a tone that expressed her dismay.
"I can't help it," returned Murtagh, "he makes me feel—" And the tone of Murtagh's voice finished his sentence for him.
"Come and sit by the fire, and let us try and forget all about him just for the present. It is no use to talk about him, is it?" she said kindly.
"Do you know what I have been doing all this afternoon?" she remarked presently. "I have been reading the most wonderful—But no, you shall just guess. Guess what it was about."
"Easy to guess," said Winnie, "if you got it out of the library. Some horrible dry stuff or other, out of a book a yard long."
"No, it wasn't," said Nessa. "The book was not bigger than one of your story-books, and—"
"Horrid squinny little print, then, and yellow paper all over stains," replied Winnie, laughing. "I know Uncle Blair's books; they make one feel dusty to look at them."
"No, it wasn't," replied Nessa, shaking her head. "It had—well, yes, it had a dreadfully ugly binding, but lovely white paper."
"Long s's," suggested Murtagh.
"Oh, yes, yes," cried Winnie. "Long s's, and funny little pictures of girls with parasols over their heads and trousers down to their boots. Now wasn't it, Nessa?"